City of Love
by deathcab4cutie17
Summary: In which Natasha and Clint go deep undercover in Paris, Natasha teaches Clint to dance, Natasha fights an internal battle, and The City of Love might possibly perhaps maybe be an accurate name, but you'll never hear Natasha admit that. T for swearing and drugs, but rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

Natasha was training when she got the call. Training was her word for it, anyway, because if any of her fellow Avengers knew what she was really doing, Natasha had no doubt that she'd be mocked and ridiculed to no end. Her days of intimidating them into silence would be over.

When her phone rang—some goofy jingle that Clint had picked and that Natasha didn't have the energy to change—Natasha stopped what she'd been doing and walked over to the singing phone. She flipped it open and held it to her ear, trying to get her breathing under control, and failing.

"Agent Romanoff," Natasha said in between gasps for air.

"This is Agent Hill," said the voice on the other end. "Are you alright, Agent Romanoff?"

"Yeah," Natasha said, nodding even though she knew Hill couldn't see her. "Intense workout," she explained.

"Alright, well we need you for a meeting immediately. A helicopter will be there to pick you up in approximately ten minutes. Inform Barton." Agent Hill hung up.

Natasha sat down on top of a medicine ball until her breathing went back to normal, then grabbed her stuff and headed towards the locker rooms. She changed in record time, out of her flowy dress and into a turquoise silk blouse and a black pencil skirt. She wiped a towel over her forehead and then left the gym, bag over her arm, fastening a barrette into her hair as she went.

Natasha found Clint in the kitchen, making pancakes.

"Better hurry that up, Barton," she said by way of greeting, hopping up onto the counter across from him. "We've got a helicopter coming to take us to a meeting in five minutes."

Clint nodded, his mouth too full of pancake to respond. He made a muffled sound that could have been "Want one?"

Natasha smiled in amusement but shook her head.

"Come on," Clint said, swallowing the pancake down. "Live a little."

"Fine," Natasha said, rolling her eyes. She knew how futile it was to argue with Clint when it came to pancakes. "Just one, and then you have to go get ready, Mr. Pyjama Pants."

"I don't see why," Clint said. "I'm sure whoever's at this meeting would appreciate my PJs. They are, after all, fabulous."

"Somehow I don't think Agent Hill would be too pleased."

Clint shrugged. "No one has any taste," he said. With a final flip, he handed Natasha a plate with a steaming pancake on it. "Just make a few more for the guys," he said, handing her the spatula.

"Wait—what?" Natasha spluttered, but Clint was already out of sight. The redhead grumbled but made the pancakes to the best of her ability. After she'd piled ten on a plate, Natasha realized she only had a minute left until the helicopter arrived. She turned off the stove and hurried out into the living room, where Tony, Bruce, Steve, and Thor were squeezed onto the couch watching cartoons. All four men looked up as she came in.

"Wow, Spidey," said Tony. "Do you think it's a good idea to eat all those? Might ruin your figure."

As if anything could ruin her figure with the amount of training she did. "They're for you guys," Natasha said.

"Aw, how sweet," Tony said with mock sincerity. "The Black Widow has been domesticated."

"Let me rephrase that," Natasha said, matching Tony's sickly sweet tone. "They're for Steve, Bruce, and Thor."

Tony stopped, closing his mouth quickly. Apparently the threat of losing pancakes wasn't worth another quip.

Natasha set the pancakes down on the side of the table furthest from Tony and then grabbed her bag from the kitchen and hurried up to the roof. She met Clint on the stairs, and their hands automatically tangled together as they took the steps two at a time.

"Do you know what this is about?" asked Clint.

"Probably a mission," said Natasha. "We were given six weeks leave after New York, and it's been seven."

"It hasn't been seven weeks," Clint said, confused.

"No, seven _days," _Natasha clarified. "You didn't really think Fury would give us six weeks off, did you? It's a wonder we got a whole week."

Clint huffed. "Someday I want a real vacation."

"That's what being dead's for," Natasha replied.

Clint looked over at the harshness of Natasha's voice. He reminded himself that she'd never had more than a week between missions since she was young, unless she was debilitated in some way. Vacationing was a foreign concept to the Russian spy. "I'd take you with me," he told her. "We could go to Venice, or Paris, or Rome."

"What would we do?" Natasha asked, unwilling to even entertain the idea because she knew that all it would do was get her hopes up.

"We'd eat all the pastries in Europe, drink ourselves dizzy, spend our days exploring and painting and dancing…" He looked over at Natasha with a smirk. "…between the sheets."

Natasha glared at her partner, but she had to admit that it did sound nice. Even a day in that life would be heavenly. "It'll never happen," she told Clint with conviction.

"You never know," Clint replied. He pushed open a door and then they were on the roof, with all of Manhattan below them. A helicopter with the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia on the door was waiting. Both assassins ran for the door, which opened as they approached, keeping their heads ducked.

Once inside, Natasha seemed to realize for the first time that she was holding Clint's hand. Her fingers stiffened up for a second, but then she relaxed them. They were partners, after all, and they had done much more than hand-holding on missions where they posed as couples.

A voice at the back of Natasha's brain whispered to her that this wasn't a mission, it was real life, and behaviour like this was exactly what led to becoming compromised. But Natasha liked the feeling of Clint's warm, strong hand in hers, so she ignored the voice and, after buckling herself in, took Clint's hand again. He looked surprised, but didn't mention it, afraid she'd become embarrassed and snatch it back. They enjoyed the ride, alternating between comfortable silence and witty banter, their hands clasped the whole way.

Once they reached the Helicarrier, Natasha pulled her hand away. It was one thing to hold his hand in the seclusion of the helicopter, but surrounded by her fellow agents Natasha had a reputation to uphold. She was supposed to be a ruthless killer, and ruthless killers did not hold their partners' hands.

Clint sighed mentally when she drifted away. She was always so distant when they were around people, and it annoyed him to no end. If she wouldn't hold his hand, then he decided to just loop an arm over her shoulder. Clint expected her to throw his arm off—and then cut it off, most likely—so it surprised him when she let it stay, only glaring to show her disapproval. Clint smiled. It may have seemed like a little thing to anyone else, but Clint knew how much trouble Natasha had opening up, and to him, this was a huge step in the right direction.

As Natasha had suspected, when they entered Hill's office (Natasha finally shrugging Clint's arm off her shoulder), the agent was holding two folders that were very familiar to the two assassins. Clint had no doubt that they held his and Natasha's new identities for an upcoming mission.

"Agent Barton, Romanoff," Hill greeted them. "Close the door and sit down."

They did as they were told, sitting gingerly on the chairs across from Hill. For whatever reason (probably by Hill's request, Clint thought), these chairs were the least comfortable in any office of the Helicarrier—possibly the whole world. On the contrary, Agent Hill's own chair looked extremely comfortable.

"As you may have guessed," Hill began, "We have a new mission for the both of you. We regret that your six-week leave has been reduced, but we trust that you will enjoy this assignment. It's a deep undercover mission, so you will assume the identities of Mr and Mrs Dupont, a high society French couple, for almost two months. Your task is to acquire invites to the Rousseau annual Christmas ball. We have intel suggesting that some very high-profile criminals will be attending. You will incapacitate them until we arrive and are able to interrogate them. As long as you can get the invites, between now and Christmas is your own time to enjoy Paris, so think of it as the rest of your vacation, but with different names."

Natasha frowned. It all sounded well and good, but for one thing. "You said we'd be attending a ball," Natasha said. Hill nodded the affirmative. "But Clint can't dance."

"Hey!" Clint protested. "That's not true."

Natasha just gave him a sympathetic glance. "It really is."

"Well I sing better than you, so there."

"You do not sing better than me!" Natasha exclaimed. Sure, he was good, but she was fabulous.

"I do too," Clint said.

"Do not."

"I'm going to stop you right there," Hill said, just barely avoiding a round of "Do too," "Do not," that could last hours. "Romanoff, you're a trained dancer, so in the months leading up to the ball, you can teach Barton. Here is the information on your new personas," she handed them the folders. "The plane leaves tomorrow at eight a.m."

Teach Clint to dance? Impossible, Natasha wanted to scoff. He was a graceful fighter, but when it came to dancing, two left feet was an understatement. Natasha was about to say so, but Hill shot her a glare that told the assassin to either agree or be assigned horrible missions—where she had to seduce unusually disgusting men and didn't even get to kill them afterwards—for the rest of her life.

"We'll be there," Natasha said. The pair stood, and with a nod to Hill on Clint's part, they left.

As they walked back to the helicopter, Clint's arm found its way back to Natasha's shoulders, and she decided that it wouldn't be that bad to teach Clint to dance. It might even be fun. She wasn't the best teacher, thanks to her lack of patience, but Clint was a fast learner and she knew that he had grace in him. She'd seen him glide across the floor to get the right angle before shooting somebody, seen him pivot effortlessly to fight people on both sides of him, seen him whip around people so fast that they'd only just realized he wasn't in front of them anymore when he plunged a knife into their back. He had quick feet and a good sense of rhythm, so all she had to do was show him how fighting was related to dance, and he would inevitably pick it up.

Natasha lifted her hand up to her shoulder and slid her fingers between his. Clint smiled to himself. Honestly, he would have been content to stay in that moment, with their hands entwined and their bodies nearly touching, for eternity. But they slipped apart as they boarded the helicopter, and didn't touch again until late that night, when Clint was helping Natasha pack. She only needed one suitcase, since S.H.I.E.L.D. would be sending her a complete wardrobe based on her new identity's personality and style within a week of her arrival in Paris. All Natasha packed were a few outfits, her suit, toiletries, and a thin gold chain with an arrow on the end. When Clint had given it to her, it had been a necklace, but she had made the mistake of wearing it into a fight and it had broken. She hadn't had the time to get it fixed.

When Natasha woke up the next morning, she slid out of bed and padded towards the bathroom, freezing when she heard a yawn. She slowly turned back to face the bed, only to see her partner splayed across her sheets. She didn't remember inviting him to stay, but she supposed they could have just fallen asleep. It wouldn't be the first time they'd slept in the same bed, although it was the first time without being drunk or on a mission posing as a couple.

Natasha decided to leave him, and headed to the bathroom as she'd originally planned. When the alarm rang in two minutes, it would wake him up anyway. Natasha cleaned up a bit, brushing her hair and teeth, washing her face, and applying makeup. She heard the alarm go off, and she heard Clint's hand drop down onto it, trying to shut it up. Natasha rolled her eyes. He never remembered that the button was on the side.

When she walked back into the bedroom, Clint had resorted to clutching a pillow over his ears to block out the noise. Natasha only smirked before turning the alarm off.

"Get up, sleepyhead," Natasha said. "We've got a big day."

"What time is it?" Clint mumbled into the pillow.

"Six," Natasha told him. She snatched the pillow away, trying to get him up, but all he did was bury his face into her sheets.

"Too early," Clint whined.

"We only have two hours until take off," Natasha reasoned, even though she knew that logic did not work on sleepy Clint.

"Two whole hours," Clint replied. "We don't need that long."

"We do, because we're supposed to be a half hour early, it takes a half hour to get there, and moving as slowly as you do in the mornings, it'll take you an hour to eat breakfast."

Clint groaned. "Five more minutes," he pleaded.

"Fine," Natasha conceded. "Five minutes, and then you will be out of bed, whether or not I have to forcibly remove you.

Clint gulped. "Yes, ma'am."

Natasha tottered about for five minutes, getting dressed, packing things she'd forgotten last night, tidying her room, checking her phone for any missed calls or texts. When the time had finally passed, she turned around, prepared to drag Clint out of bed, only to find him already tugging his pants on. He'd slept in boxers, Natasha realized, but she didn't blame him. Jeans were a bitch to wake up in.

"I'm feeling like eggs today," Clint said as they walked out of her suite together. It was too early for anyone else to be awake, so nobody would question their sleeping in the same room. "What do you think?" he asked. "Eggs and bacon?"

"Sounds good," Natasha said. Clint was a fantastic cook, and she would have been a fool to turn him down. She made their coffee as he cooked, a morning routine that they had established on a deep cover mission in Sydney, Australia. Once Clint had made enough for everybody, he set it out on the table just as the other Avengers started streaming in. Pepper was first, ever punctual, and Tony, loathe to leave Pepper for too long, was right behind her. Bruce, Thor, and Steve all arrived late with killer hangovers. They'd spent the last night seeing who could hold their liquor better: a demi-god, a super soldier, or the Hulk. By the grin on his face despite the hangover, it seemed Steve had won.

Natasha started reading her file during breakfast, and after a pointed glance from her, Clint followed suit. Later, near the end of their flight, they recited what they'd read, twisting it this way and that to make it sound more natural.

"My name's Noëlle Anne-Sophie Dupont, née Laurent," Natasha told Clint. "I was born November 18th, 1985, in Bordeaux, France, and I was raised there by my parents, Celeste and Damien Laurent. My mother died of leukaemia five years ago, and my father of natural causes two years later. My mother had been in her fifties when they had me, their only child, so it was evident that they would pass on while I was still fairly young. Still, it broke my heart. The only thing that kept me going was my wonderful husband, Richard Dupont." Natasha winked at Clint. "I met him when I was nineteen, having just moved to Paris. We dated for seven years, we were engaged for a year, and our one-year anniversary is this year, on December 6th.

"I had moved to Paris to dance, but injured my leg two years ago, seven years into my career. While I was injured, I decided to teach, and even though my leg's all healed now, I've decided to keep teaching instead of going back to dancing professionally. I'm now the proud owner of a ballet studio and I'm living happily with my husband, who has taken over his father's multi-billion dollar dancewear business. Life could not be more perfect."

"How sweet," Clint said.

"Yes," Natasha agreed. "Noëlle has a nice life."

"She sounds lovely. Richard's a lucky man," said Clint. Natasha was skimming her file again, but she couldn't help but notice that he was watching her, and when she looked up, she found him gazing at her oddly. He was looking at her like she was Natasha, not Noëlle. It almost felt as if he was _talking _about Natasha, and not Noëlle. But that didn't make any sense. Natasha brushed the thought away, convincing herself that it was just wishful thinking.

"I suppose," said Natasha. And because Clint's gaze was confusing her, she changed the subject. "It's your turn," she said.

Clint sighed, but nodded. "My name is Richard Brandon Dupont, I was born April 24th, 1983 in Paris, and raised by my father, Matthew Alasdair Dupont, after my mother, Pauline Nicolette Dupont, died in childbirth," he said. "My mother and father owned a dancewear empire, and on my twenty-first birthday I inherited it. My father had not been particularly attentive recently, which was mostly due to his developing heart problems, so I decided I would get his business—now my business—back on track by visiting every one of our stores to see how things were doing.

"It was in our Paris branch that I met my beautiful Noëlle. I asked her out for coffee, and then we started dating. I asked her to marry me two years ago. Our one-year anniversary is coming up soon, and I couldn't be happier. The first few years of trying to keep up my father's business were extremely stressful, and it was Noëlle who made me realize that it was _my _business, and that I didn't have to play by my father's rules anymore because it was my game now. And when my father died, she understood my grief, but she also understood my relief, that I was no longer trapped under his shadow.

"She's the only person I've ever known who truly understands me," Clint said, and he was looking at her again, like he wasn't talking about Noëlle, but Natasha. It made sense—Natasha did understand him completely—but what he said next didn't make any kind of sense. "I love her more than anything in the world."

Natasha's brow furrowed. He wouldn't say that about Natasha because he didn't love her, they were just partners. She was making things up in her head, deluding herself into thinking he was talking about her and not her alias.

"You sound perfect," Natasha told Clint. "Like you're not even lying."

"The best lies are rooted in truth," Clint said cryptically, but she didn't have a chance to ask what he meant because the pilot's voice suddenly crackled to life over the intercom.

"Buckle up, Agents," said the pilot, whose name could have been Jerry or possibly Jimmy. "We're about to land."

The agents buckled up, and as the plane circled towards the ground, Natasha tucked her head between her knees. She had always hated landings. Clint put an arm around her, and she grabbed at his hand and held on tight. That was how they landed in the City of Love, her knees tucked up to her chest, his chin resting on her head, and their hands clasped so tight that they both felt like all their bones would break.


	2. Chapter 2

**I forgot the disclaimer last time. Oops! Sadly, I don't own the Avengers—if I did, there would be **_**way **_** more Clintasha. I do, however, own the plot to this fanfic and a few OCs.**

**I have nothing to do this summer so chapter updates should come pretty quickly. I'm working on the next chapter right now. This new chapter, and most of the ones following, will have a lot of French when they're speaking, and I don't want to interrupt the flow of the story by saying it again in English, so Google Translate is your friend. If you really, really, really don't want to have to translate it, I can start rewriting the dialogue at the bottom of the page in English.**

**Feel free to give me ideas for upcoming chapters, because I've got two months to play with them and only a couple ideas. If there are any fantasies that have been swimming around in your brain (dirty or not) that you don't have time to write, I can probably add them in. My aim is to entertain you guys, so don't hesitate to give feedback and suggestions. If you do, you get a shout out**

**Speaking of which, big thank you to AvengerRedHuntress, TandreShipper, Nat, and Shadow the Assassin for reviewing.**

Although they had landed in Paris, Natasha didn't start feeling it until they were out of the airport. She'd always felt like airports were some sort of no-man's-land, not the country you've left behind, but not quite the country you've arrived in. It was only once she stepped through the double doors and out into the cool nighttime air, luggage in hand, that Natasha fully realized where she was. Paris, one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

"Chouette!" Natasha said, a smile playing on her lips. Despite having been on dozens—quite possibly hundreds—of missions, Natasha had never been to Paris. Looking around her, she felt cheated. "C'est tres belle," she said, trying out the language for the first time in years. Her French was a bit rusty, but she'd be okay with a little practice.

"Oui," Clint agreed. "Juste comme toi."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Cliché," she said.

"Il n'y a rien de mal avec une cliché de temps en temps."

"Oui, il y a."

"Il n'y a pas."

Natasha glared, then turned away to hail a taxi.

"So what are we going to do first?" Clint asked, his voice just as cheery as before. It annoyed Natasha that her glare had no effect on him when it could make lesser men want to cry for their mothers.

A taxi pulled up and Natasha stepped inside gracefully, tucking her small bag in the space between her knees and the seat in front of her. Clint hopped in the other side. He gave the taxi driver the hotel's address and a wad of cash.

"Nous devons aller a l'hôtel avant tout," Natasha said to Clint, speaking in French so the taxi driver wouldn't think they were tourists. It was unlikely that anyone would be able to track down their driver, much less that they would question him, but her paranoia—she called it caution—was part of what made Natasha the best assassin in the world. With her rep, she couldn't afford to make mistakes.

"Et après?" Clint asked, following her lead.

"Est-ce que c'est trop tard pour la diner?" Natasha asked.

"Probablement dans une restaurant, mais nous pourrions commander la service de chambre."

"D'accord," Natasha agreed.

After another half an hour, the taxi finally stopped in front of a tall blue building with vines crawling up one wall. It looked like it was just about to start falling apart, but it had a certain charm, and it certainly wasn't the worst place Clint and Natasha had stayed.

"Merci," Natasha thanked the driver as she stepped out of the car.

Wordlessly, Clint took Natasha's hand, slipping her a small circular object as he did so. Natasha realized immediately what it was, and slipped it on her ring finger. At the front desk, while Clint received the keys, Natasha examined the ring. It was very pretty, silver with a topaz in the center— Noëlle's birthstone. She glanced at Clint's hand and saw a silver band on his finger. It was simple, yet elegant. Noëlle had good taste.

Once they reached the room—which had only a bed and an uncomfortable looking sofa but made up for it with a spectacular view of Paris—and made sure it was clear of bugs, the assassins finally relaxed.

"God, all the French was starting to hurt my head," Clint groaned.

"Please," Natasha scoffed. "You've been here an hour."

Clint shrugged, as if to say _long enough. _He picked up a book on the sofa and flipped through it. "Damn," he sighed. "Room service ends at midnight."

"It can't be that late yet," said Natasha. She snapped her phone open to check the time. "No, it's only 11:58."

"I don't think they'll appreciate a call two minutes before closing."

"So we'll tip them," suggested Natasha. "Hurry, before it's too late."

Clint waved her off, picking up the hotel phone, a big red clunky thing, and dialing room service. "What do you want?" he mouthed to Natasha, who was removing the top blanket from the bed. She had been in enough hotels to know that they never washed those.

"Throw me the menu," she answered, catching it between her fingers as it came whizzing at her. She skimmed it, acutely aware of how much time she had.

"Caesar salad," Natasha said. There was a coffeepot in the corner of the room, but no tea, to Natasha's dismay. "And a mug of chamomile tea," she added.

Clint finished the order barely three seconds before midnight, feeling quite proud of himself.

"Impressive, right?" he grinned at his partner, who had flopped (gracefully) onto her stomach on the bed.

"Very," she replied sarcastically. She dug a book out from her suitcase and flipped it open. Clint sat on the sofa and tried to fill the silence, babbling about this and that, irritating his partner to no end.

"You don't have to do that," she finally said.

Clint stopped in the middle of his sentence. "What?" he asked.

"Keep talking like that. We've been partners for years—I know all your stories, even if you don't remember telling me them. Can't we just relax, enjoy the quiet?"

"Thanks," Clint grinned. "My mouth was starting to get sore from all the chattering."

Only minutes later, the silence was broken again. "One more thing," said Clint. "And then I promise I won't speak again for the rest of the night."

Natasha sighed. "What?"

"Do you really think I'm that bad of a dancer?"

Natasha let out a half-laugh. That was not what she'd been expecting. "No," she admitted. "But you're not good enough for the sort of people we'll be around soon."

"So I'm really going to need lessons?" Clint asked, cringing at the thought of the redhead's infamous impatience.

"Yes," said Natasha. "But don't look so bummed. It's not exactly my dream job, either."

"Why not?" Clint asked in mock offense. "Any other girl would kill for alone-time with me."

"I must be different than any other girl," Natasha remarked. "We'll start tomorrow evening. Now zip it." She ducked her head back down into her book.

Never one to break a promise, Clint didn't speak for the rest of the night, eating wordlessly, swallowing down all the jokes he came up with concerning French cuisine, evening mouthing "Goodnight" to his partner—to which she rolled her eyes and hid her smile.

The agents fell asleep somewhere around three in the morning to the music of the All-Night Live Jazz Café across the street. Clint was splayed across the bed, a hand and a foot dangling off the side of the bed. Natasha was curled into a tiny ball, so close to the edge that she was in danger of falling off. Curiously, though, when she woke, Natasha found herself closer to the middle of the bed, her back pressed against a warm surface, a familiar arm wrapped around her.

Clint woke up a half hour later, alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Shout out to .angelo, Meow, and GyMusicAddict**** You guys are the best!**

The assassins had to hurry to get ready that morning. Natasha had left her trusty alarm clock behind and the one at the hotel didn't work, so she woke up at 8:00 a.m. instead of 6:00. This wouldn't have been a problem except that Hill called to tell her that Jacques Rousseau, the host of the ball, would be having breakfast at a small café at 9:00. Clint was supposed to act like he was just innocently having breakfast, then strike up a conversation with Rousseau to get on his good side.

Natasha zipped about, trying to find something in Clint's suitcase that he could wear. Wardrobe had not yet sent over Noëlle and Richard's clothes, but this meeting at the café had seemed like to good an opportunity to pass up. Finally she found a white buttoned shirt and the least torn (a side effect of their profession, not a fashion statement) jeans he owned. Clint had been wearing a watch last night, but she replaced it with something a little fancier. Richard Dupont seemed to her like the kind of guy who had a thing for fancy watches.

When Clint woke up, he was shoved into the bathroom with the clothes, and then just as brusquely shoved out the door.

"Remember, be charming," Natasha called after him.

"Aren't I always?" he called back, a smirk on his face, and Natasha had to smile.

Clint was back an hour later, knocking on the door because he'd forgotten his keys. Two quick raps in succession, a deeper sounding one with the side of his fist, and then he played out a rhythm with his knuckles. It sounded silly to have a secret knock, but knowing it was Clint at the door set Natasha at ease. She still answered the door with a gun in hand, but it was by her side instead of in his face.

"How did it go?" Natasha asked immediately.

"What, no 'hello'?" Clint asked, shutting and locking the door behind him.

"Hello," Natasha greeted him with a roll of her eyes. "How did it go?"

"Fabulously," Clint said with a grin. "We're invited to dinner on tonight."

"Just us and him?"

"And his wife, and a few of their other married friends," Clint said. "He was really open, and eager to invite me to dinner, which could mean that he's extremely naïve, or that he's confident in his security personnel."

"Which one do you think?" Natasha asked. Between the two of them, she was the better judge of character, but she had taught Clint a few tricks on reading the momentary flickers in people's voices and expressions to understand what they really meant.

"I think he's just naïve, honestly," said Clint. "He was all too happy to spill everything and anything about his life."

"That should make all this pretty easy then," said Natasha. In fact, if that was the case, then she could probably get the invites purely by sweet-talking Rousseau. She may not even have to seduce him, which would be a welcome break. Still, she hoped that it wasn't too easy—manipulating people was just so much fun.

"Yup," Clint said, grabbing Natasha's hand. "But we have seven hours before we have to leave, so why don't we go out for lunch?"

"Lunch?" Natasha repeated. "It's eleven."

"Brunch, then," Clint shrugged. "In Paris, they all equate to the same thing."

"What's that?" Natasha asked.

"Pastries, Nat," Clint said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Natasha rolled her eyes but didn't question it. "Alright," she agreed. "But give me a minute."

The redhead wandered into the bathroom and tugged on a sundress. Noëlle's wardrobe still hadn't arrived, so Natasha wasn't sure if it was what she should be wearing, but it seemed harmless enough. She brushed her hair and slicked on mascara and lip gloss. As she was shoving the tube of lip gloss back into her purse, she caught a glimpse of a baggie near the bottom. A heavy weight dropped in Natasha's stomach. God, how long had it been? Two years? And yet the temptation was still there. With a shudder, Natasha closed her purse.

"How do I look?" Natasha asked as she walked out of the bathroom.

Clint grinned and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. "Beautiful."

He didn't have to remind Natasha that as soon as they stepped out of the door they were a couple, she was already playing the part. She beamed up at her 'husband,' holding on to his arm and placing kisses on his cheek whenever she had an opportunity. Clint looked down adoringly at her every time she did. To anyone else, they looked like any other loving couple. They played their parts perfectly, so perfectly it felt real even to them sometimes.

Wouldn't it be nice if it was real.

Clint bought so many pastries that the bakery must have been wary of exactly what he was planning on doing with them. Surely two people couldn't eat so much—surely twenty people couldn't eat that much! They walked down to a park by a lake and Clint laid a blanket down under a tree, then emptied the bag of pastries onto it. There was barely enough room for the pair to sit down after that, but they solved that problem by eating them all. Now, being super-assassins who regularly burned upwards of 10,000 calories per day, Natasha and Clint were no newcomers to eating their weight in food, but after an embarrassing amount, Natasha just couldn't take anymore. Clint stopped soon after, and they fed the rest of the brioche and croissants to the ducks in the lake.

It got late fast, and they had to hurry back to the hotel, stopping only to buy Natasha a dress for the dinner. They got changed in record time, making mistakes in their haste. Clint's tie ended up tied in hopeless knots, and Natasha had buttoned her dress wrong.

"Let me fix that," said Natasha in the elevator, reaching for Clint's tie. She fumbled with the knot before untying it and retying it the right way. The she smoothed Clint's hair down and turned around. "Button me up?"

Clint complied, sliding pearly buttons from where they'd gotten stuck, each one a slit higher than it should be. He'd just slid the last button into place when the elevator doors opened. Flashing Natasha a good luck smile, he grabbed her hand and they walked out of the doors of the hotel.

Natasha hailed a cab and gave the driver Jacques Rousseau's address. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off of her in the rearview mirror, which was probably due to the dress, a sleeveless emerald number with beading adorning the sweetheart neckline. Natasha really hoped it wasn't too formal a dinner because the dress only went down to just above her knees.

"Vous etes fabuleux," Clint whispered in her ear, as if he'd read her mind. Natasha suppressed a shiver.

"Vous n'avez pas l'air trop mal même," she teased.

"Je pourrais être l'homme le plus beau du monde," said Clint. "Je pourrais être l'homme le plus beau du monde, mais personne n'a voulu me prêter attention, tant que j'étais à vos côtés. Vous êtes magnifique."

Maybe he was just playing the part, but Natasha's mouth went dry listening to him. She wanted to think he was talking about her, but if he wasn't, she didn't want to make a fool of herself.

"Merci," Natasha said, her voice coming out a little more breathlessly than she would have liked.

"Pas une problème," Clint smiled.

Natasha leaned back in her seat, all too aware of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She cursed herself. This was exactly what led to becoming compromised. She couldn't be compromised. So she turned her head away from her partner and focused on controlling her emotions until they arrived.

Clint bolted out of the car as soon as it stopped and was pulling Natasha's door open before she could react. She couldn't help but smile, and took Clint's hand when he offered it. She kissed his cheek and hung onto his arm as they walked towards the door. A butler answered Clint's knock, and led them to one of the biggest living rooms Natasha had ever seen. She didn't show her amazement, though. Noëlle had seen a lot better.

"Ah, Richard," said an impeccably dressed man whose dark brown hair was swept back in a poof. "Je suis si joyeux que vous pourriez atteindre. Et cela doit être votre épouse." The man embraced Natasha warmly. "Je suis Jacques Rousseau," he introduced himself.

"Noëlle Dupont," Natasha responded, shooting him the most genuine smile she could muster.

"Noëlle? Je suis ravi de vous rencontrer finalement. Et quelle coïncidence, parce que les dernières invites à mon fête de Noël seront distribués cette semaine."

Natasha sighed mentally. Really, Jacques was making this too easy. She had hoped that at least she would get the chance to flirt the invites out of them. But there he stood, handing them over, and Natasha hadn't even batted her eyelashes.

"Voulez-vous venir?" Jacques asked. He looked straight at Clint as he said it, and something flickered in his eyes. Something that Natasha recognized instantly, and which made her want to chuckle. S.H.I.E.L.D. had forgotten some vital intel. Jaques was eyeing Clint the same way so many targets had eyed Natasha before. The redhead had no doubt in her mind that Jacques had it bad for Clint, and by the looks of it, Clint was also aware of that fact. He smoothly flirted with Jacques, subtly enough that it was unnoticeable to anyone who did not already know that it was happening. Natasha had a feeling that Jacques would have been a lot more forward with Clint had his supposed wife not been there.

And so, to make things a little more fun, Natasha left.

"Excusé moi," she said, getting up from her seat. "Où est la toilette?"

"Juste là-bas," Jacques replied, pointing behind him. He barely afforded Natasha a passing glance before returning to his conversation with Clint. And as Natasha left the room, she didn't have to turn around to know that that conversation was rapidly heating up.

"I can't believe you left me," Clint whined once they were back in the safety of their apartment. "I was nearly eaten alive out there."

Natasha laughed. Because of the angle of the entrance to the bathroom, Natasha hadn't been able to spy on them without getting caught, but she was content enough in her certainty that Clint had only very narrowly escaped being lured into bed by Jacques Rousseau. Just the thought made Natasha laugh again. Sure, Clint had been with men before, but Jacques was most definitely _not _his type.

"It's not funny, Nat," Clint huffed, but Natasha could tell he was fighting back a smile. "And to think you go through this all the time," Clint remarked.

"Yeah, and I've dealt with much worse than Jacques Rousseau," Natasha reminded him. "Sure, he was a bit on the scrawny side, but at least he had teeth." They both cringed, remembering the target in Bali.

"Okay, okay," Clint conceded. "You win. You have it worse and I have no right to complain."

"I never said that." It fell out of Natasha's mouth before she even recognized it as a thought. Clint looked at her quizzically. Oh, well. Best to just go all in now. "I just mean…" she began, but quickly trailed off. What _had _she meant?

Oh. It dawned on her. _That _was what she had meant. But now that she understood, Natasha didn't feel like saying it out loud. It felt too personal—too vulnerable.

"Never mind," Natasha said, glancing at the floor and then the ceiling and then the fridge—anywhere but him. Anywhere but his eyes, which had taken on a determined look. She had said too much, and now he wanted to know what she'd meant. She knew he wouldn't stop until he got answers, and Natasha shuddered remembering some of the tactics he'd used the last time he'd needed to coerce something out of her. Natasha didn't want to think about it, but suffice it to say tickling had been involved.

Now that was an experience Natasha didn't want to relive.

"I just meant…" Natasha began again, then swallowed. Clint took a step towards her, curiosity obvious in his expression. "I always complain to you," Natasha explained. "Whenever people are rude or annoying or gross, I know it's going to be okay because I you're there afterwards for me to talk to. And that's mostly what gets me through it. So if you want to complain, complain away."

Clint had edged closer to her as she spoke, and now he was standing mere inches away. "I don't need to complain to you," he said. "Just being around you is enough to make everything okay."

See, that was what Natasha had wanted to say. _That _was what she had meant. Why was she so terrible at figuring these things out? Why couldn't she just be eloquent with these things like Clint? As it was, all she managed was a meager "Me too," but it seemed to mean the world to Clint.

He caught her hand, kissed it chastely, and then dropped it back to her side. Butterflies started whizzing around in Natasha's stomach, and she chastised herself. She couldn't let silly things like that compromise her.

Both assassins turned around to their separate drawers to grab nightclothes, and changed into them on opposite sides of the bed. Clint normally slept in just his boxers, but when he was sharing a bed with Natasha he pulled sweatpants on over them. Natasha also normally slept mostly naked, but she had bought a few slips for when she was sleeping with Clint.

She hopped onto the huge bed and curled up into a ball on the edge. When she felt Clint's arm pull her closer, she didn't fight it, letting him wrap her up in his embrace. It was distracting, but not distracting enough. Try as she might, Natasha couldn't get one thing out of her mind.

She made it to three a.m., and then she couldn't take it any longer. Natasha hurried to the bathroom, grabbing her purse along the way. She clicked the lock and dug the baggie out from the depths of her bag. She didn't even know why it was in there, probably just because she'd never had the willpower to take it out. She took it out now, and for the first time in two years, Natasha relapsed.

**Woah. Even I didn't see that coming.**

**FYI, Natasha was dancing in the beginning of the first chapter—just in case you didn't get it. I thought it was pretty obvious, what with the dress, but whatever.**

**Also, check out the number of follows vs. the number of reviews. Neither is very big, but there are more follows. That means some people are following and not reviewing—not cool. Review, guys!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, everybody! **

**Shout outs this chapter go to Meow, Rennier, and karui . di . angelo, whose name didn't show up last time. Sorry!**

**I've gotten a request for the translations to be written, so those will be at the bottom of the page in the order they showed up in in the story. If you want a suggestion, go to the bottom before you read and paste everything into a sticky note, then just look at the sticky note whenever you need a translation.**

**Enjoy…**

When Natasha woke up the next morning, it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. She felt lighter than air. God, she hadn't felt this good in two years. Not since the last time she'd had a hit. Now, feeling like this, Natasha wondered why in hell she'd ever wanted to cut herself off. She grinned, getting up for a shower. She watched her veins jumping out under the rush of the cool water, could feel the drug coursing through her blood.

A knock on the door woke Clint. He could hear the shower running and groaned, knowing he would have to answer. It took all his energy to drag himself out of bed and open the door. It was a deliveryman with two large suitcases. Wardrobe had come through.

Natasha came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel just as the door closed.

"Wardrobe?" she guessed, seeing the suitcases.

"Yeah," Clint yawned, leaving the cases by the door. He stretched his arms above his head. "Have at it."

Natasha grinned, grabbing the pink suitcase and unzipping it. It nearly exploded as she did, all the clothes spilling out. Clint was amazed that it had been possible to force all that in.

As she hung up the clothes, Natasha also inspected them to get a feel for Noelle Dupont. There were tights, leotards, gauzy skirts, and ballet shoes—flat and pointe—since Noelle owned a dance studio, and there were also plenty of evening gowns and strappy heels for ballroom dancing. Natasha couldn't find a single pair of pants or a plain t-shirt, but the dresses were pretty enough. She found a compartment completely dedicated to jewelry, which was mostly pearls. Pearl necklaces, bracelets, earrings, even barrettes. Natasha raised an eyebrow but shrugged. She looked good in pearls, anyway.

"Breakfast?" suggested Clint once she was done. His wardrobe was a lot easier to handle, being comprised completely of jeans, polo tops, dress shirts, black trousers, and dress shoes, plus a huge amount of fancy watches. He had changed into a dark purple polo top, smirking at an inside joke. Natasha was twirling in front of the mirror in a red cap-sleeve dress with a pearl clip in her hair.

"Yeah," Natasha replied. "But not pastries—I never thought I'd say this but I'm kind of sick of them."

"Sick of pastries?" Clint asked, feigning horror. "Inconceivable!"

Natasha shot him a glance as if to say _Really? Princess Bride quotes now? _

"Yeah, that wasn't cool, was it?" Clint cringed.

Natasha shook her head. "Let's just go," she said, slipping her feet into sandals.

"Le livreur nous a donné ces aussi," Clint said as they walked down the hallways, handing Natasha key.

"Les bicyclettes?" Natasha asked, recognizing the shape of the key as fitting in a bike lock.

"Oui. Apparemment, nous ne conduisons pas pour rester respectueux de l'environnement."

"Tres bien," Natasha said. She didn't mind a little extra exercise, especially since Noelle didn't go to the gym. Biking would be slightly more difficult with all the dresses, but Natasha had long since perfected the art of biking in dresses without flashing anybody.

The assassins found their bikes locked up right outside the hotel, a sturdy blue one for Clint—which Natasha eyed enviously—and a flimsy colorful one for Natasha, which she rolled her eyes at.

"Voulez-vous echanger?" she asked Clint hopefully.

"Non merci," Clint laughed. "Je ne veux pas l'air ridicule."

Natasha sighed, but mounted the bike. She lead the way to a diner she'd spotted the other day, which was probably two miles away. As she rode, she decided they would have to ride further than just to the diner and back, because four miles total wasn't even going to render her out of breath, much less count for a full workout.

As Natasha stopped her bike and affixed it to the rack in front of the diner, she inhaled. Paris wasn't the most aromatic place in the world, but the food in this diner smelled delicious. Natasha remembered the other girls in the Room who'd been using. One girl in particular had had the most voracious appetite whenever she was high. Conversely, another girl had so little appetite that she had practically been force-fed. It had never affected Natasha's appetite, thankfully, and that would make it easier to hide it from Clint. She'd have to watch what she said, though. She'd always been prone to hallucinations.

As they walked into the diner, Clint's arm brushed Natasha's, and she made a mental note not to inject. If he brushed up against he again, he would surely feel the bump of the injection site and know what she had done.

He couldn't know what she had done.

Natasha remembered the last time she had relapsed, and how she'd told Clint. If he'd been angry, maybe it would have been okay, but he wasn't. He had just looked so disappointed, so confused, like it was a joke and she hadn't really fucked everything up. But she had, and his sorrow was enough to make Natasha cut herself off again. She swallowed, a lump forming in her throat just from thinking about it.

As they ordered—chocolate crepes for Clint and raspberry jam crepes for Natasha—she could feel herself coming down from her high. She knew what would come next—the hollow feeling, the sudden sadness after hours of elation, the uncontrollable urge for another hit. She hated this feeling, even more so because Clint was chatting with her, grinning and talking and laughing and she knew that if she told him it would all turn around.

She wouldn't have to tell him. When she got home, Natasha was going to throw away the baggie and never think about it again and Clint would never have to know. It was one line, for fuck's sake! Her life couldn't be ruined because of one line of heroin! The lump in her throat tightened, but Natasha swallowed it down. The waitress was approaching with her food, and Clint was smiling adoringly at her, and Natasha was determined to forget about everything.

"Donc? Qu'en pensez-vous?" Clint asked, breaking Natasha from her thoughts.

She smiled at him. "Pardon, quoi?"

"Écoutiez-vous a une mot que je disait?" Clint asked with a chuckle.

"Bien sur," Natasha replied with a giggle.

"Quelle danse est ce que nous faisons en premier?" Clint repeated himself.

"Oh," Natasha said. "Je ne sais pas. Que est ce-que vois voulais faire?" She realized she didn't know the names of these dances in French, so she assumed a French accent and spoke in English. "Waltz? Foxtrot? Tango?"

Clint stuffed a crepe in his mouth and scrunched up his nose. He made a "hmm" noise and looked up to ceiling as if it would drop answers on him. "Waltz," he finally decided. "Ce soir?"

"Ce serait une plaisir," Natasha smiled. "Voulez-vous aller voir le Louvre aujourd'hui?"

"N'est-ce pas trop touristique?" Clint asked.

"Probablement," Natasha agreed. "Peut-être une petit galerie au lieu?"

"D'accord," Clint said. They both finished their food, talking about things that weren't important until the waitress brought them the check. Clint took Natasha's arm as they made their way out of the diner, and she kissed his cheek, telling herself it was just in case anybody interrogated the diner's staff about them.

"Voulez-vous faire une course?" Clint asked once they were outside, his eyes twinkling.

"Je pensez que vous demandriez jamais," Natasha laughed, pushing away from him and grabbing her bike. She unlocked it nimbly and was whizzing away from the diner in no time. Clint caught up with her easily enough, but then Natasha took a sharp turn down a small path and Clint had to scramble to turn around.

"Pas juste!" she heard him call from behind her, and she threw her head back and laughed.

"Vouz pouvez faire mieux que ça!" she taunted, but when she turned around, Clint wasn't there. Natasha frowned, then heard a whistle in front of her. She whipped her head around only to see Clint ten feet ahead. He must have taken a short cut. "Tricheur!" she accused. Clint only laughed. Well, two could play at that game.

Natasha saw Clint heading around a small pond, so she sped up, turning away from that route and choosing instead to cross a rickety bridge, ending up on the other side of the pond, twenty feet in front of Clint. She resisted the urge to flip him off, knowing it was something Noelle wouldn't do. Natasha shot out onto a street, ignoring the squealing of tires as the cars screeched to a halt. Clint was right behind her now and she couldn't lose a second. She was up to thirty miles an hour now, racing downhill. She could practically sense Clint on her heels, and she could see a flight of stairs ahead. Natasha grinned. She knew how to get him off her tail.

Clint figured out what she was doing two seconds before she did it.

"Noelle, ne fais pas!" he shouted, but it was too late. Natasha was shooting down the stairs, and Clint, who could never let her go into danger without him by her side, was barreling down the steps with her. On the last step, Natasha flipped, spinning through the air. She landed on her feet and ran a few steps to disperse the energy. Her bike clattered down and landed in front of Clint's. He jumped off, rolling on the concrete just quick enough to avoid the next flight of steps. As he brushed himself off, he glanced at Natasha, expecting himself to be angry with her.

Instead, he felt a grin forming. "C'etait genial," he said, and Natasha laughed.

"Mais les bicyclettes sont ruinee," she said, not seeming too sad about it. The ride down had been exhilarating for both of them—almost as good as…

Natasha stopped that thought in its tracks. One of her legs was aching, but she shook herself off. Nothing was broken, although she might have twisted a wrist.

The assassins looked towards their bikes, Clint's at the bottom of the second flight of stairs, a handlebar snapped off, and Natasha's poking out of a bush, one of the tires wrenched from its spot. Both knew they should feel bad, but they just didn't.

"Je m'en fou," Clint answered honestly, and Natasha had to agree. She walked up to her partner and ran a hand through his hair, then linked her arm with his.

"Il'ya une petit galerie juste la bas," Natasha said, pointing to a small building to their right.

"Allons y," Clint responded.

By the time they made it back to the hotel, it was eight o'clock and they were exhausted. They'd left their bikes at the nearest dumpster and walked everywhere after that.

Natasha unlocked the door and stepped inside, immediately dropping the façade. She kicked off her shoes and headed to the bathroom. "Give me a minute," she called to Clint.

Once the door was locked, Natasha rooted through her purse to find the little baggie. She lifted it up in front of her and glanced at the toilet. Maybe before she threw it out, she could just do one more line. It wouldn't be that big of a deal, right? She sighed and shook her head. Clint was right outside, and if she came out high he would notice. It had been different last night, when he was asleep. There was no way she'd get away with it now.

Natasha opened the toilet lid, took a deep breath, and dropped the bag in. She flushed it down and then splashed some water on her face, pasting on a smile.

Clint was rooting through his bag for a new shirt when she walked out of the bathroom. He turned around, pulling a t-shirt on. Probably the only one he had, since Richard didn't seem like a t-shirt kind of guy. "Ready?" he asked.

Natasha nodded. She grabbed a bottle of water and took a gulp, then made her way over to Clint. He'd cleared as much space as he could, pushing the bed back into the corner and piling their belongings onto the couch.

The redhead pulled her partner to the middle of the room, and placed of his hands on her waist. She put her hand on his shoulder, and then lifted their other hands up to the side. "Step forward with your right foot," she instructed. "Now pivot onto your left, close together. Step back with your left, swing your right foot out, switch directions. Step back with your right, back with your left, close."

Clint did surprisingly well, learning the steps without a hitch. "That's it?" he asked.

"Those are the basic steps," Natasha replied, having to tilt her head up to look at him. "Now the waltz is in three/four time, which means the count goes like this: one, two, three, one, two, three," she explained the rhythm. "There are nine steps, three groups of three. Try the steps while I count."

Natasha, as the follower, twirled around Clint effortlessly, counting in threes. He stumbled a few times, but seemed to get it quickly enough. It was only when Natasha started the music that everything went downhill. Suddenly, he couldn't remember the steps, he got the rhythm wrong, and he bumped Natasha's toes at least seven times.

"Stop worrying about the music, Clint," she told him. "Listen to my voice. Listen to me counting," she counted in threes again, and the dance went fine, but as soon as she stopped talking, Clint stumbled.

"Fuck," Clint mumbled as he messed up for the millionth time.

"Don't give up," Natasha said. "Look, I'm going to put the music on, but I don't want you to listen to it. Pretend I'm counting, okay? Listen to my voice in your head, but don't listen to the music."

Clint sighed, but nodded. Natasha pulled them back to the middle of the room and positioned herself again.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yeah," Clint said.

This time, she could tell Clint was tuning out the music. He was concentrating hard, keeping his eyes on Natasha's. The dance was perfect. Natasha smiled.

"I knew you could do it," she smiled. But that was only the beginning. Natasha showed Clint as many twirls and dips as she could stuff into his brain. As long as he tuned out the music and focused on her, he could dance perfectly.

"Alright, last one," she said a little while later. "One, two, three, twirl, one, two, three, dip," She felt herself falling backwards, stopping only a couple feet above the ground, one of her feet on the ground, and the other pointing out. Clint's hand on her back was strong, and his face only inches from hers.

"Like that?" he asked softly.

"Perfect," she answered breathlessly. Was it just her, or was his face coming closer? Natasha leaned upwards without thinking. Two inches, one inch, four centimeters, and then her lips were brushing against Clint's, her eyes closing.

The song they'd been dancing to came to an end, snapping Natasha back into reality. She rolled out of Clint's grasp, standing shakily. "Sorry," she said quietly.

"No, it was my fault," Clint said. She turned around to see him standing right where she'd left him, looking down. "It won't happen again."

Part of Natasha's mind wanted to tell him "But I want it to happen again" or—better yet—wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him. But she bit her lip and swallowed the feeling. She knew this couldn't happen. It was one thing when they were Noelle and Richard, but when they were Clint and Natasha, they couldn't afford to have anything change. If their partnership were compromised, not only would S.H.I.E.L.D. lose its best team, but she would lose her best friend. Natasha knew she couldn't handle that, so no matter how much she wanted to, nothing could happen with Clint.

But, God, she wanted to. She wondered if Clint could see the longing in her eyes when she looked his way. Probably. She doubted it was hidden very well. She wondered if he felt the same way. He _had _kissed her, but that was probably just a fluke. She knew she was pretty—Clint had probably just been lost in the moment.

"Um, it's late," Natasha said. "I'm going to go to bed." She grabbed a slip from the closet and changed in the bathroom. When she came out, Clint was in bed already. She curled up on the edge farthest from him, and held back tears as she fell asleep.

**I just want to say that I didn't really mean for the drug thing to happen, I was just writing and then there it was. Sorry if it's become too angsty for you—I promise there will be loads more fluff in later chapters, and maybe even some lemons if you ask nicely. **

**Also, tell me if you got the Doctor Who reference—I couldn't resist! As for the Princess Bride quote…I'm truly sorry about that one. It just happened.**

**Review if you liked it, if you hated it, if you have ideas for it, if you want me to post a sexy end-screen dance, if you got that reference, or even if you're just having a bad day and want to let it out.**

**Here are the translations, in order of appearance:**

"**The delivery man gave us these as well."**

"**Bicycles?"**

"**Yeah, apparently we don't drive so as not to hurt the environment."**

"**Alright."**

"**Do you want to trade?"**

"**No thanks. I don't want to look ridiculous."**

"**So, what do you think?"**

"**Sorry, what?"**

"**Were you even listening?"**

"**Of course."**

"**What dance are we doing first?"**

"**Oh, I don't know. What do you want to do? Waltz? Foxtrot? Tango?"**

"**Waltz. Tonight?"**

"**It'll be a pleasure. Do you want to see the Louvre?"**

"**Isn't that too touristy?"**

"**Probably. Maybe a small gallery instead?"**

"**Okay."**

"**Want to race?"**

"**I thought you'd never ask."**

"**Not fair!"**

"**You can do better than that! Cheater."**

"**Noelle, don't!"**

"**That was awesome!"**

"**But the bikes are ruined."**

"**Who cares."**

"**There's a little gallery over there."**

"**Let's go."**


	5. Chapter 5

**Shout outs:**

**Meow, don't worry—your English is perfect. Thanks for the review.**

**Dreamitandbelive it—you don't know how much that means to me. Thank you!**

**Special shout out to GuiltyBystander who got the danisnotonfire reference. Honestly, I don't know how I would do it. Describing him gyrating would be kind of weird.**

**Here's chapter five…**

Natasha had already ordered breakfast when Clint woke up—pancakes, his favorite. She'd made coffee, too, which never happened. Ever.

"Who are you and what did you do with my Tasha?" Clint asked sleepily as he surveyed the scene.

_My Tasha_, Natasha thought. That sounded nice, although she'd never admit it. "I made coffee," Natasha said, holding out the mug to Clint. He accepted it and took a sip gingerly, as if afraid that it was poisoned. When he figured out that it wasn't (unless it was some kind of slow-acting poison), he grinned.

"Breakfast in bed," he remarked. "I could get used to this."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "Don't. It's a one-time thing," she said. "To say sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Clint asked.

"Last night," Natasha replied.

"What happened last night?" Clint asked, confused. Then it dawned on him. "Oh! The kiss!"

Natasha flinched, but nodded.

"Oh, Tash, you don't have to apologize for that," Clint laughed. "I enjoyed it."

Natasha frowned. "It could have compromised our partnership," she said.

"Our partnership works best when our relationship is close," Clint pointed out. "Remember Budapest? We were at our closest then, and we worked better than we ever had before."

Natasha realized he had a fair point, but it went against everything she had been taught. She had always had people telling her not to get attached to anyone because it would only compromise her. But she and Clint _did_ work better when they were closer and if it helped their partnership—

Screw that. Natasha knew it wasn't for their partnership that she wanted to kiss him again. She wanted to kiss him again because he was the most amazing man she'd ever met—and fucking hot to boot.

"You enjoyed it?" she blurted out suddenly, only just realizing that he had said that.

Clint laughed, shaking so much Natasha was afraid he was going to spill coffee all over the sheets. She frowned at him. "Don't laugh at me," she said.

"Sorry, sorry," Clint apologized. "Yes, I enjoyed it. It's your job to be a good kisser, so if I hadn't enjoyed it it'd be bad news for you."

"I did, too," Natasha said, regretting it the instant it left her mouth. She knew it would only blow up his ego.

A grin spread across Clint's face. "Why thank you," he said. "Want a repeat performance?"

Natasha's eyes widened slightly. "Is that a joke?" she asked.

Clint sat up fully, setting his mug down. "Did it sound like a joke?" he asked in return.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Then suddenly, Natasha was out of her seat and in front of Clint, her lips crashing down on his. Her fingers tangled in his messy hair, pulling him closer to her. How long had she been waiting to do this? Three years, at least. Three years of sneaking glances and fantasizing about him when he wasn't around. But none of the fantasies lived up to the real thing.

Natasha found herself sitting down on Clint's lap, straddling his hips. She kept one hand at the base of Clint's neck and let the other trail down his bare chest. His tongue slipped into her mouth and she gasped, pressing even closer to him.

Finally, they had to break away to breathe, but even then they didn't break contact. Natasha leaned her forehead against Clint's and he kissed her nose softly.

Although she really didn't want to ask it, Natasha had always been the one to say the things that no one else had the guts to. "What does this mean?" she asked Clint.

Clint shrugged. "It doesn't have to mean anything, if you don't want it to," he said. "But it could mean everything, if you want it to."

"What's 'everything'?" Natasha frowned.

Clint wasn't sure how to explain it. "It's an abstract concept," he said. "It means I'll give you all of me. It means I'll love you forever."

"Oh," Natasha said. "I want that."

Clint laughed. "Okay." He leaned in for another kiss, wrapping his arms around Natasha's waist.

"The pancakes are going to get cold," Natasha pointed out.

Clint kissed down her neck, smirking. "If I just told you I would love you forever, do you think I'm going to pick pancakes over you?" he asked.

"But I ordered them specially for you," Natasha protested.

"We'll order more later if you really want them that bad," Clint promised, nipping at Natasha's collarbone.

Natasha pursed her lips. "Fine," she gave in, and the next second she found herself on her back, Clint hovering above her. She grinned in anticipation as he kissed his way downwards.

…..

Afterwards, Natasha ordered more pancakes and they propped themselves up with pillows and tried not to get syrup on the blankets. Their efforts proved to be futile when Clint kissed Natasha, knocking her plate off her lap and smearing the syrup everywhere.

"Clint!" Natasha cried indignantly.

Clint looked sheepish. "Sorry," he said.

"Forget it," she sighed. "We have to get going anyway."

"Why?" Clint asked.

"Believe it or not, Clint, we have work to do."

"But Hill said we didn't have to do any work as long as we showed up to the Christmas party," Clint pointed out. "And I vote we spend the two months leading up to that in bed with pancakes."

"We can't do that," said Natasha. "We'll get too fat to restrain the men at the ball."

"Don't have to worry about that, sugar," Clint said, earning a raised eyebrow from Natasha. He placed a big kiss on her lips. "We'll be getting plenty of exercise," he quipped.

"I'll hold you to that," Natasha laughed. "But we still need to get out. This hotel room is getting claustrophobic." When Clint made no move to get out of bed, Natasha shot him a look that said _If you don't get out of bed right now, I am going to shove a pancake so far up your ass that you'll be able to taste it _and was pleased when he seemed to get the message, tugging his pants on as he hopped out of the bed.

Natasha pulled on another one of Noëlle's dresses and slipped into flats. "You wanna go get new bikes?" she asked Clint. "Ones that won't be ruined within four hours?"

"There's no bike in the world that can withstand Natasha Romanoff for four whole hours," Clint teased.

"And don't you forget it," Natasha said. She pulled him in for one more chaste kiss before they had to leave themselves behind and assume the Duponts' lives.

**Sorry for the short update guys. I've been lacking inspiration lately so review with ideas.**


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